It’s frustrating. I feel it in your touch, the way your hand cradles mine. I see it in your eyes, in that particular way they shine. I see it in the gifts you give, each deliberate in their choice. But I miss it when you’re gone, and I sit and wait and call. Whenever I’m not next to you, do you even think of me at all? I miss it on your lips. I wait and I wait, but the words never come. Instead I get, a sly grin, a sarcastic quip. Which may be enough for some; but not for me.